“Sir, sir, I beseech you,” came the entreating tones of Wentworth; “I cannot bear arms against you. Listen but a moment, sir.”
“Draw, you dog, or die the death of one.”
“Sir, I implore you; I cannot draw with you opposed. Sir, let me say a word——Oh!”
There was one clash of steel, then a brief cry of pain, and now silence again, all so quickly accomplished that first word and last were uttered in the time during which Armstrong leaped from saddle to earth. He searched hurriedly for the leafy tunnel through which Wentworth had passed, but before he found it the lad staggered into sight again, his left hand grasping his breast, his right dragging the sword, his face pale as chalk.
“He has killed me,” he gasped.
“Nonsense. You would not now be on your feet if the wound were mortal. Who is your assailant?”
“No matter for that. Help me home.”
“I shall first give the rogue a taste of his own surgery,” cried Armstrong, drawing his blade.
But the other restrained his ardour, leaning heavily upon him.
“It is her father. Do not leave me; I faint. If—I——if I——I cannot direct you, take me down the lane; the high road. My home——the house to the right.”